


Argentina Can Wait (A Few More Hours)

by ArwenLune



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1stclass_kink, Author Filled Own Prompt, Erik might actually feel a glimpse of happiness, F/M, Female Character of Color, No really - Don't Let The OFC Put You Off, Prompt Fic, platonic, strip club, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/ArwenLune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just need touch. Even if you're a hardened killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Argentina Can Wait (A Few More Hours)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this gorgeous story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/234534) and filling [this](http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/7315.html?thread=13307795#t13307795) prompt. Am I going to a special hell for filling my own prompt? This idea hit shortly after posting it there.

Erik watched the stage with detached appreciation. A too-thin girl climbed a pole and then hung upside-down by one leg with admirable acrobatics. He smiled wryly when the hooting near the stage reminded him that he was not admiring her for the reasons the rest of the clientele was.

 

"Lulah is on her break," the girl behind the bar said as she handed him his scotch. "She will be half an hour or so. Is there anybody else you'd like..?"

 

He shook his head, relieved she was still here at all. He'd last been here a year ago. It wouldn't have been surprising if she'd moved on.

"I'll wait."

 

"I'll let her know." the smile didn't reach her eyes.

 

Erik found a corner booth and settled in, idly observing the other patrons. It wasn't a classy club, but it wasn't run down either. Tonight it looked like a few lonely regulars and three businessmen winding down over booze and a stack of dollar bills. 

 

It wasn't the only club he'd ever been in, but it was the only one he'd walked into more than once. Not for the stripping. He supposed it was strange to find the dancing no more than aesthetically pleasing. It didn't arouse him - but then, nothing really did. Not women, not men either. He didn't think of it much, didn't miss it. The occasional sticky dream was the only reminded that his body had a sexual side to it even if his mind didn't.

 

Herr Schmidt's treatment had certainly made sure that he didn't want to feel that part of himself.

 

Being on the road like he was, perpetually on the hunt, there was little more human contact than what he made in his enquiries. That, and brief exchanges with hotel and airport personnel made up the vast majority of his social interactions. His steel-cast focus allowed for nothing more than that. There were whole days where he didn't speak with anybody, and weeks, months, where nobody knew his name.

 

One day, while getting a haircut, he'd decided he'd enjoyed the hairwashing far more than what was socially acceptable, and that maybe what he needed was _touch_. He'd walked into a strip club. Wasn't that what men did for this sort of thing?

 

He'd picked the pretty halfblood girl, mostly on the bases that she was the only one with a figure that appealed. He didn't want to see anybody's ribs, and she was short and curvy, with a dance in her walk that made him smile a little bit. 

 

"I'm Erik," he'd said when she'd agreed to give him a lapdance. He'd agonised over that. Was he going to give no name, a false name? In the end he'd decided that his first name was hardly a solid identifier, and that somehow it mattered to know her name, and for her to know his.

 

She'd tipped her head up to shoot him a smile that seemed genuine.

"Hello Erik, I'm Lulah."

 

Later, when he knew there were more people like him, that he wasn't alone, he'd wonder if she was a mutant herself, perhaps an empath - or simply very good at body language. She'd been into her dance no more than a minute before she'd noticed that while he had little more than an abstract appreciation for her considerable dancing skills, he'd all but basked in the moments she touched his shoulders. The dance had slowed into a sensuous prowl over to him, and she'd slid a hand along his shoulders and the cowl of his turtleneck. Apparently pleased with the way he'd leaned into the touch, she had spent the rest of his allotted time massaging his scalp until his mind was practically humming with content.

 

 

He was drawn from his thoughts when somebody squashed themselves into the booth with him, and then she was there, caramel skin glowing red in the low light, riot of black curls brushing against his shoulder. Anybody else who'd come this close could count on meeting the sharp of his tongue - at the very least, and more likely one of his knives - but he liked the casual intimacy from her. He supposed she had earned it.

 

"Hey."

 

"Hey Lulah," he said.

 

She was a little out of breath, eyes sparkling, and took a gulp from the glass of coke she had picked up at the bar. She smelled of coconut hair product. He realised he'd seen her enter via the front door.

 

"You didn't come off your break, did you?"

 

She smiled, caught out.

"I mostly work at the hair salon down the road now," she confided. "I only come dance if somebody asks for me."

 

"That's great," He heard himself say, and mean it. He knew, though they'd never talked about it and in fact hardly ever said much, that it was a good step for her. It was not an easy time for a mixed race woman to make a living.

 

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, stroking her hair, and she turned a little, leaning back against him, warm and solid against his side. It made something stutter inside of him, that she would so easily trust him at her back, and he had to check to make sure his hands weren't shaking. Her head was resting against his shoulder, face tipped up. Her eyes drifted shut as he traced his fingers over her forehead, and she smiled a little.

 

He was well aware that this situation existed because he paid her - and generously - but he also knew that she wouldn't let him touch her if she didn't want him to, and hadn't, the first times he'd come to her. While he knew it was a transaction, it was one he was reasonably confident she didn't resent. The easy lines of her body and the relaxed breathing were hard to fake.

 

He basked in the feel of her, the soft weight of her leaning against him, her face and hair under his hands. Some part of him had craved this, over the past year - the simple human contact of casual touches, somebody who knew his name and wasn't fearful of him. He felt a certain amount of vague affection for her, for the easy way she smiled at him, and for the way she managed to make his strange, awkward request feel completely natural. He'd tried a few other stripclubs, during his travels, but it hadn't gone well. The thought of a brothel made him feel queasy and a massage meant baring a back full of scars, so he'd simply waited until he could come back here and hoped she'd still be here.  

 

Of course, she might not be there very much longer. He finally found a name for the subtle differences he'd subconsciously sensed in her. The different balance to the magnetic streams within her body, the slight changes to her figure, and - now he'd noticed the other clues - the way her hand was resting on her abdomen. She was only barely showing.

 

"Congratulations," he said, seconds before he could remind himself that it might not necessarily be a happy occasion.

 

She gave him an upside-down look, eyes wide with surprise, and he cut his eyes over to her stomach. A soft smile broke on her face when she realised what he meant.

 

"Thank you."

 

He stumbled over a few questions that didn't quite want to take shape, all boiling down to 'Is your baby going to have an okay life?' but he didn't want to be intrusive, well aware that the semblance of affection she gave him did not extend to personal questions. He finally settled on "Are you going to be all right?", figuring she could always just nod and not elaborate.

 

"Yeah. My man is opening a bodyshop with his brother. We's gonna be fine..."

 

It had a dreamy, sing-song tone to it, and he couldn't help smiling a little. It felt like some sort of honour that she didn't feel the need to hide the fact that she was in a relationship. He gathered her hair and let the tight curls caress his fingers, and she made a soft sound of pleasure, eyes drifting shut.

 

Normally there would be a moment where they went into one of the private rooms, and she would rub his shoulders or massage his scalp. Or sometimes simply hug him, cheek against his chest, and he would hold her. This time when she looked up at him, cut questioning eyes to the back rooms, he shook his head and ordered them both another drink. He was far too comfortable where he was, soaking in the calm contentment of the moment.

 

He'd spent the entire past year travelling, hunting. Barely stopping to eat and sleep, standing still only when forced to wait. He couldn't remember when he'd last touched anybody without the intention to hurt - or kill. Certainly nobody had touched him apart from a reluctant handshake or the rare haircut in the sort of place where you didn't bother to say how you wanted your hair because the only option was 'shorter'.

 

He'd barely stopped all that time, and it should have felt strange now, wrong even, to sit here and do nothing - but it didn't. It felt good in a way that edged on warm things, soft things, that he'd buried far away - things he couldn't have, wouldn't have, wasn't even sure if he wanted. Couldn't want, not while he had a goal, not when every breath had to carry him closer to killing Shaw.

 

Just like that the restlessness returned. Three drinks, and the warm weight and the slow breath of her. An empty space within him filled, for a while. That would have to be enough.

 

 

 

A few minutes later, at the door, she smiled up at him and laid her hand along his cheek in goodbye. He allowed the touch for a few seconds, already back into hunter mode but knowing she wouldn't understand that change back to _don't-touch-me._

Then took her hand to put a thick roll of bills into it.

 

Her eyes widened.

 

"But you've already pa--"

 

He shook his head to silence her, and closed her fingers around the roll of banknotes.

 

"For your baby."

 

A small part of him, the part that still listened to the ingrained mores of Jewish culture, felt uncomfortable with giving a gift for a baby that had not been born yet, but he silenced it. It wasn't like he could send it later.

 

"And... thank you." He couldn't articulate what exactly she'd given him, but he felt the urge to acknowledge it. He was fairly certain he would not be back here.

 

She rose onto tiptoes and brushed a kiss over his cheek.

"You're welcome. Take care, Erik."

 

"Und sie, Lulah." He smiled at her, and turned to walk out, wanting to be out the door before she took a closer look at the roll of notes he'd put in her hand. It was excessive, sure enough, but he had enough funds for himself, and he could not think of a better use for a dead nazi's money than to help a young black family make a life for themselves. It had a pleasing sort of symmetry to it.

 

He hailed a cab.

 

"To the airport."

 

He had a flight for Argentina to make.

 

 


End file.
